


Striking Sparks

by Snowgrouse



Category: Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Adorkable, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Androgynous male character, Boat Sex, Boats and Ships, Cunnilingus, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Heroine/Villain, Loss of Virginity, Magic, Magic Users, Magic as sex aid, Muslim characters, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, PWP, Persia, Romance, Slap Slap Kiss, Slapping, Smut, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Too Kinky to Torture, Vaginal Sex, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25789582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: "Only I am cursed," Jaffar spits, "that I can see only you!"He buries his face in her breasts and she screams; yet, in that panicked moment, Yassamin realises she is again free to move. She springs free, but he closes his arms around her; the fever of his body against hers far more horrendous a sensation than the touch of his magic had been."Let go of me!" she shrieks, the silks of her wedding gown tearing; she would ratherdiethan be his. The door is there, the sea is there, the gateway to her freedom in death; even the hell of suicides preferable to the hell of his bed.Yet he clings to her, clutching at her, staring at her a madman. "Never!" he cries, his voice thick from his passion; "Never."She draws back her arm and slaps him with all her might; the noise he makes is horrendous, animal. She kicks and screams for her freedom, yet Jaffar becomes even madder, now, sinking the claws of his fingers into her waist. And to her astonishment, he issmilingof all things--no,leeringwith his eyes wide open, his mouth the drooling maw of a beast, his teeth jagged above a tongue panting, gleaming red."Do that again," he rasps."What?!" she splutters.
Relationships: Jaffar/Princess (Thief of Bagdad)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Conrad Veidt





	Striking Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> Little fool! She really didn't count on Jaffar getting off on being slapped, did she? 
> 
> Another AU set upon the Black Ship where a) Yassamin grows a brain and b) Ahmad fails to arrive and c) Jaffar is infuriatingly wonderful, not to mention brilliant in bed. Short and sweet PWP, fluffy and steamy, as is their wont. :)

***

"Only I am cursed," Jaffar spits, "that I can see only you!"

He buries his face in her breasts and she screams; yet, in that panicked moment, Yassamin realises she is again free to move. The remains of his spell dissipate and her limbs become alive again, unlocked, unfrozen from their trance. She springs free, but he closes his arms around her: his hideous, long and thin arms, arms like the legs of spiders, she thinks; the fever of his body against hers far more horrendous a sensation than the touch of his magic had been.

"Let go of me!" she shrieks, the pink silks of her wedding gown tearing; she would rather _die_ than be his, _die, die._ The door is there, the sea is there, the gateway to her freedom in death; even the hell of suicides preferable to the hell of his bed.

Yet he clings to her, clutching at her, staring at her a madman. "Never!" he cries, his voice thick from his passion; "Never."

She draws back her arm and slaps him, slaps him with all her might. His head flies back, his turban sent askew from the force of her blow: the noise he makes is that of an animal, like the noise a tiger makes when its keeper hits it with a stick. One of their tigers, her father had had clubbed to death as punishment for having bitten her leg; just like then, when she had thought she would be eaten alive, Yassamin now kicks and screams for her freedom.

Yet Jaffar becomes even madder, now, sinking the claws of his long fingers into her waist. And to her astonishment, he is _smiling_ of all things--no, _grinning, leering_ with his eyes wide open, his mouth wider open still: it is the drooling maw of a beast, his teeth jagged above a tongue panting, gleaming, glimmering red. 

"Do that again," he rasps.

"What?!" she splutters with her hands upon his chest, still trying to push him away. 

"Slap me!" he says, then presses himself against her with a lustful hiss that makes all hair on her body stand on end. "Go on! You want to, do you not, my child?" he lisps and laughs deliriously.

"You are a madman, insane!" she cries, her arms hurting as she strains there, staggering as she tries to pull back from the heat of his body, the heat of his thighs and the heat of _that_ which now brushes up hard against her legs.

"Yes, I am mad! Mad for love of you! Come! Slap me to my senses, then! Beat me! Beat me so that I can show the bruises to the judge and call for a divorce immediately!" he cackles. 

"I am not your wife!" she screams, and at that, she slaps him again. 

He reels and sways from her blow, the fabric and the pins of his turban falling this way and that about his head; he laughs again, his body vibrating against hers with his chuckles as he turns to face her once more. "On paper, you are. Come, more! I do not yet hate you enough; why, these little taps are but caresses!" he rejoices and stares up into her eyes mischievously, his voice the most obnoxious of pitying croons. "Or is it that you _do_ love me, after all, hmm?" he coos, his mouth in a mock-pout, rocking her in his arms. "And that you do not wish to _really_ hurt your precious Jaffar, after all?" 

"I hate you!" she cries, loud, wild: she slaps him again, now with both hands, one after another.

"More!" he but cries, pants, and she slaps him again, again, again.

In her chaos, her panic, her confusion, she falls headlong into his madness, intoxicated by her rage, some red storm of fury rising up inside of her and moving her limbs. Is this what they mean when they speak of warriors becoming possessed on the battlefield, of some spirit taking over them, moving through them? Because now, it's as if she were watching herself from afar: a madwoman dressed as bride, her silks flying, the glint of her jewellery like sparks struck every time she hits this beast, this madman in bridegroom's clothing. And even stranger than the violence of all this is the laughter, the hilarity, the sickening joy she now finds in this, joy bubbling out of her as his turban finally falls from his head and she is beating ears of flesh, beating a head damp from sweat, beating hair long and thinning, black and grey; it is the head of an old man, the incarnation of all the nightmares she had ever had of being married to a man ancient.

Yet she is making this old man happy, glad: he is _shaking_ in his laughter, _sobbing_ in his joy at the pain she is giving him, _panting_ in ecstasy as she so beats him. And what's worse, _she_ is now laughing with him, making joy with him, making happiness with him: their bodies are moving together, trembling and pressing and rubbing together, their huffed breaths mingling.

"Oh, God!" she moans in disgust, slumping in exhaustion as she realises she is enjoying this, _enjoying his body,_ her body passing its pleasure to his. 

He is erect against her, his hair a tangle about his head, his balding forehead gleaming and the veins upon his temples full from excitement: he laughs in utter happiness and hugs her to himself, his kohl smeared from his tears--whether these are tears of pain or of happiness, she cannot tell. 

But what this chuckle now feels like against her belly is the worst thing of all: it drums itself there as warmth, spreading tremors of she-does-not-know-what all across her body. And now, when she looks into his dilated eyes, even her thundering heart skips a beat; something inside of her staggers, that lurching sensation as one begins to fall. 

"You liked it," he now says, his voice shockingly soft, lilting, feline. "Do you know, in some love manuals they say that that's the truest sign of a woman's passion: when you can see the marks she has left upon her beloved's body."

She pushes him off herself in disgust; he lets her. She casts down her eyes and her shoulders slouch, but no sooner has she done so than there's a flutter of black fabric--he has cast off his cloak--and he lifts her off her feet, picking her up in his arms. This time, she doesn't resist, dejected: she is simply too exhausted, and how could she offer any serious resistance any longer, if her own body and her own mind have betrayed her so? 

She bursts into sobs against his chest, hating herself, but even this self-loathing is now mingled with thoughts of him and his body, his body all she can think about as he begins to carry her towards the bed. Now that she has finally come into contact with his body, now that her own body has finally communed with it, now that she has begun to know it as a body of real flesh and blood beyond her initial disgust, she cannot stop wondering about it. How thin he is, how tall, how feminine, yet how strong and commanding: never has she known another person with such a strange admixture of traits, and she wonders how much of this is magic. Else, how on earth could he pick her up and carry her around like this, when he is clearly agitated, clearly still shaking?

And as he lowers her onto the bed and holds her, she weeps in shame at all this heat his hands can now feel upon her body, all these illicit tremors she had felt as she had been beating him; the full shame of her treacherous heart does she now weep out underneath his lips as he kisses her softly. Yet the greatest of her shames is that of the wet patch upon her drawers, her cunny the greatest of traitors: the scent of her arousal does not go unnoticed by him as he now begins to undo the laces of said drawers, his nostrils fluttering in delight as he inhales her, smiling up at her in triumph.

"Don't be gentle," she spits.

He hovers over her, his voice soft with surprise. "But why, my sweet?" he laughs as he cups her head, with a tenderness that she detests.

She looks up at him. Even in the darkness of this, a more shadowed corner of the cabin, his face frightens her; perhaps even more so now that the light touches only his high cheekbones and pierces his irises as if they were but glass.

"Do whores deserve tenderness?" she asks.

Because she feels not at all like a princess, not at all like a lady, not at all like the dignified, pure and chaste virgin she had been groomed to be on this, her wedding day. Even Ahmad, she had kissed as soon as she had met him, had held hands with, had embraced; she had been ready to run away with him unmarried.

To her surprise, Jaffar lets go and lies down beside her, his hand tender upon her belly. "My little game was, in fact, not only a ruse to shake off Ahmad," he murmurs, smiling as he plays with the half-undone laces. "After having seen how much you loved excitement, how you adored being swept off your feet, I thought I would give you the same experience--only much more majestic. That, and..." he glances at her from underneath his brows, more serious, now.

"And?" she asks, her belly quivering, dipping underneath his fingertips.

"The moment you ran away, people began to talk. They did, in fact, fling around that word you now used of yourself. And I couldn't bear it. That's why I rescued you," he says, his hand now coming to clutch at the laces possessively. "I would not have them speak of my betrothed like that. And neither could I allow Ahmad to ruin your reputation like that."

"It's nothing I wouldn't have, eventually, ruined myself," she laughs, a little hysterically, staring at his hand and her sex beneath it. "That thing you are after, I would have found a way to waste, one way or another."

"Mmm," he murmurs, not taking her bait--perhaps he thinks that this is one more ploy by her to kill his desire for her, implying she would be by nature a wife unchaste. "I shan't let it go to waste," he says and now pats her cunny, making her yelp in outrage. "I promise to take good care of it," he chuckles, now turning his tap into a series of tickles, making her squirm and toss and shriek, her silks flying; "Aye, so shall I exhaust you with my love that you cannot so much as _think_ of other men!" he laughs, tickling her all over, sending her into fits of helpless laughter again, once more unable to control herself. "After I'm done with you, my sweet, you will be looking at even a _cucumber_ in horror, thinking, _'No more!'_ "

"Stop it!" she shrieks, heaving; the visions now swimming in her head are each more insane than the other. Wild images of him taking her in positions like those in the exoticmost of love manuals, upside down and in knots, hanging from swings--

"Oh, but this is why I love you, my sweet," he chuckles and hugs her to himself, his voice dragging in his throat from happiness. "You have an erotic imagination," he says and slaps her on the buttocks.

"Can you see into my mind?" she asks, warily. For all intents and purposes, it seems to her that he can, indeed--the way he had dipped into her mind presently, and when he had tried to enspell her, seem proof enough. But that could have been another one of his illusions; thus, she has to ask.

He kisses her on the nose. "I shall teach you how to do it, if you like; it's really very simple. Knowing each other's thoughts should reduce marital strife, for a start." He looks up playfully, mock-frowning. "Or, perhaps, come to think of it, make it worse."

"Have you never been married before?" she asks, bluntly.

"Not since I took up magic," he says, but there is a flash of something so terrible in his eyes--some ghost of a distant past?--that immediately, she regrets asking. When she averts her gaze, ashamed, he glances over his shoulder, changing the subject himself. "And like I said, I have lost my taste for the slave girls. Thanks to you, you little minx!" he says, threatening to tickle her once more.

"Please! Have mercy," she says, staying his hand upon her waist.

He presses his forehead against hers. "And here I thought I would be inside you, by now," he groans humorously. "Got you laughing so hard that you would still be jiggling and heaving as I thrust into you, a wild ravishment that terrified all aboard ship, or made them jealous, by your screams..."

"I am still waiting," she says, shocking herself. She does not know who it is that now speaks through her: that harlot-Yassamin who has hitherto guided her only instinctively, now emerging into her conscious mind and speaking through her lips?

He looks at her, taking in her torn and rumpled silks, the flowers that have now fallen from her headdress all over the bed.

She responds with a pointed look, staring up at him and examining him in the same manner: his sash undone, his erection tenting his trousers, his hair frizzy, curling upon his cheeks and flying about his head, most of it escaped from its ponytail.

"Well?" she asks, trying so very hard not to let her voice waver.

He brings his hand to her knee, tracing the silk-clad curve of her inner thigh with his fingertips: she bites her lip so as not to close her legs reflexively, choosing to challenge him with her own boldness instead. She stares at his hand, even if she is shivering, her cunny pulsing, fluttering: his arm is covered in goosebumps, she realises, he just as excited as she is, or even more so. Even as his hand nears her cunny, hovering but an inch from it, she cannot stop marvelling at that hand, never having realised how beautiful his hands were before, how delicate rather than spider-like; another part of him possessed of a distinctly feminine beauty, a feminine way of movement, yet carried by a masculine strength. He moves his hand with such grace, too, mesmerisingly elegant and soft in its movements, like a dancer performing a symbolic gesture as he finally closes his fingers and brings them to her sex.

When his fingertips touch her wetness, it is he who lets out a choked moan, first; hers follows his, her breath mingling with his. Now, they are so close that his eyes are crossed, crooked in such a sweet way she cannot help but adore it--oh, she has been such a fool.

"You... want me," he says in astonishment, and for the first time, that soft, pleading, meaowing voice of his pierces her heart; she can hear a little question in that voice, too, the way he sometimes speaks as if he were voicing a question even when speaking words of command. "You truly want me?" he now marvels, looking at her in awe, perhaps surprised that he has achieved this not by magic or force.

She lifts her hand to his hair, careful, not sure how to touch him; as her thumb brushes against his hairline, he looks embarrassed, clearly self-conscious of his balding. "Yes, it seems that I do," she whispers, marvelling at this situation herself.

She tries so very hard not to think about the madness that had been Ahmad--oh, to think that she already thinks of him in the past tense!--Jaffar now having sobered her mind to all the risks she had been taking with Ahmad, now making her even more eager to cling hard and fast to this older, more intelligent man. Had Jaffar disgusted her merely because she had already fallen for Ahmad? After all, today is the first day she has even gazed upon Jaffar's face properly. Never before has she seen him like this, so close by, so intimate: the vastness of the blue of his eyes, all the little wrinkles around them. Never has she smelled him before, either, the intoxicating musk and ambergris of his perfumes, the scent of his clean and fresh sweat--that, too, feminine, softer and more delicate than the animal sweat of Ahmad's that she had thought so heroic. 

Heroic! Yes, what a heroic picture she had painted of Ahmad, only an illusion in her head--and Jaffar, she had painted the villain, also an illusion in her head! Why, Ahmad had never rescued her like this, pursued her like this, _cared for her_ like this. Ahmad had never made her laugh like this, made her stir like this, with a squirming heat driving her body mad; Ahmad had never made her wet like this, either. Perhaps, in having been afraid of Jaffar, she had merely been _afraid of her own desire?_

"Call me arrogant, but that's what it looks like to me," Jaffar now smirks, having once again peeked into her mind. "But tell me, my child," he says and brushes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "For I must know. If he--if Ahmad were to appear," and he glances at the cabin door behind them, "there, at that door right now, would you leave with him? Or remain here with me?"

This time, he does not peek into her mind, demanding honesty of her, demanding that she make a choice and make it now, he having seen the chaos still swirling inside of her, mad, wild.

She squeezes his hand with her thighs, takes a deep breath and meets his eyes. "Close the door."

The smile that lights up Jaffar's face is that of the sun emerging from behind clouds: never taking his eyes from her, he whispers a rune and with it, slams shut the door.

Startled, Yassamin jerks against him. "Jaffar!"

But already, he is chuckling into her mouth, taking her with his hand: he rubs and presses her cunny through the damp spot in her drawers, delighting in her noises, and she resents him not only for such flippant, boastful shows of magic, but also for the way he immediately knows how to touch her, his fingertips upon the exact spot she keeps them in while pleasuring herself. 

"What am I, an instrument?" she whimpers against his lips as he savours her moans with his mouth, his eyes half-closed from pleasure. 

"An instrument, a delicacy, a _drug_ ," he murmurs, lifts his hand to his face and _sniffs_ it, disgusting, and his filthiness arouses her even if she hates admitting it to herself: the thought of her spending the rest of her life with this beast drives her mad already, and she groans and rolls her eyes.

He but closes his eyes and sucks his fingers, making her shiver in disgusted arousal. " _Delicious,_ " he hisses, squeezing his own erection through his trousers with his fist. 

With a great groan, he lets go of himself, bringing shaking hands to her shalwars, now practically tearing them off her with the rest of her clothes. As he strips her thus, she thinks of robbers turning rooms upside down in their search for treasures--yet, to her surprise, this robber now begins to murmur against her skin as if a mystic in fervent prayer. 

"Please, Yassamin, please," he whispers as he kisses her breasts, her belly. "Please."

"Have I not said yes already?" she laughs, tapping his back with her foot as he lies there between her legs, half on top of her.

"You mistake me, my dear," he says, with that devilish white spark in his eyes again. "I did not speak of dipping the pen into the inkwell, but..." and he slides down lower, nuzzling her mound with his nose and his lips: the scratch of his moustache makes her jerk back from his touch, sending her cunny clenching and clenching so violently that her hips lift off the bed. "This. You see, a lady has never let me," he says, "but surely, ladies taste just as lovely as slave girls?"

Her eyes fly wide, and she glances at the door, at the window lattices: she does not care about anyone seeing her yielding to the man who is her husband, but a sin of this magnitude is a different matter entirely. "Perhaps. Jaffar--I--"

Immediately, there is a series of loud, clattering noises: for now, the window shutters come down one by one, shielding their bed from all eyes, plunging the cabin into darkness.

"There!" Jaffar declares, lighting one of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling and levitating it above the bed. 

"Jaffar, do you always make lovemaking into such a... performance?" Yassamin asks, unable to mask her frustration; she is feeling a little jealous, as if magic were a more important mistress to him than she. 

And within that thought, she also wonders if he is, in fact, impotent, or a man poorly endowed: why else would he be spending this much time on tricks, and insisting on taking her with but his mouth? Never could she have expected anything like this from a lover, all of these delays in particular: indeed, she had been told that _men_ were the impatient ones, only wanting to plunge their pricks inside as soon as possible, and that it was the women who had to fight for a slower approach, to ensure they got pleasure out of the joining themselves. And here she lies, hot and wet and ready, waiting for _him_ to get on with it already!

But now, as he divests himself of his own clothes, she can see her suspicions of his poor endowment were false: in fact, she is now more than a little terrified, and glad of his slowness after all.

"Yes," he says as he lies down between her legs: "that is one good reason to tarry," he says, dropping a soft kiss onto her mound. "I meant it about pleasuring you unto exhaustion, and that will not be possible if I hurt you the moment I begin to take you," he says. 

"I wish you would!" she cries, exasperated. 

But as he begins to take her with his mouth, she can complain no more: in fact, she almost regrets having allowed him this because it only drives her madder from desire, that heat that had been pooling in her womb now becoming utter hellfire, torture. For this is nothing at all like those times she had taken herself with her hand, her fingers; the touches of his tongue feel wonderful, but they are also so incredibly soft--too soft--and thus, driving her insane, desperate for a firmer touch. For there is hardly any pressure here for her to grind her sex against, she lifting her hips again and again in vain only to meet his wet, soft slickness: again, she is reminded of the softness and lightness of a cat as he laps at her. For it is an animal act, this, bestial; and even if the perversion of that thought stirs her in its way, the heat this act packs into her hips is truly unbearable. All the blood in her body seems to be surging into her womb, into her cunny, her entire pelvis heavy and tight and aching with it, all of this blood desperate to be released by the rush of orgasm: she is reminded of those times she had been almost caught masturbating and had been left with an ache in her hips that would not go down for hours, leaving her in utter agony.

"Please! Mercy, my lord, I beg of you," she sobs, teetering as she is here upon the brink, sure she cannot reach release this way. 

"Really?" he asks, a little hurt; his mouth is gleaming from her sap, little drops of it beading upon his moustache. "I am sorry."

"It feels wonderful," she murmurs, guilty for having deprived him of a taste he obviously loves. "But the ache is unbearable, now. Does a man not feel the same way after a while?"

"He does," he grins; yet, he now closes his eyes for a moment, frowning a little, as if he were listening to her body. "My God," he laughs, a little abashed: when he opens his eyes, he looks like a schoolboy who has just been caught at some mischief. "I must confess I did _not_ expect that."

"I am ready," she blurts, and now her shame deepens, over her having corrected a man twice her age.

"And I am glad that you are," he says gently, sensing her shame. "I cannot possibly tell you how glad," he murmurs with a wistful little smile, "but I can show you."

Gently, he lies down on top of her, gifting her with a kiss: she shivers as she tastes herself, shivers as he opens her legs and guides himself to her entrance. She closes her legs around him, lifting her hips, desperate to get pressure onto her cunny, into it; she is desperate to have it be touched, to have this ache pushed and rubbed away from it once and for all. 

"Please," she whispers onto his lips, even as he struggles there, even if she hurts, but she wants him too much and must have him, must.

A sharp, tearing pain stabs at the opening of her sex as her hymen begins to give. But she doesn't care for the pain, even if it makes her shiver all over: she pushes the sickening feeling down and focuses on the wonderful new sensation of him inside of her, inside of her, inside of her. Her fingers had been nothing in comparison to this, this way she is now pushed open, held open, stretched by another's flesh: she could never have imagined all of her internal organs being moved so much during sex for a start, the way his cock now pushes up her womb and her guts, them in turn pushing up her stomach, her very lungs. To be so wholly taken by her lover, to truly feel him in every part of her body--so, _this_ is what the poets had sung of, and she had never known the--literally!--visceral depths of it, the shock of it, the impalement of it. 

"Am I hurting you?" he asks softly, shifting atop her, trembling a little as he forces himself into stillness.

She opens her eyes a fraction, and he looks so young, there, nevertheless no longer boyish: only like the loving bridegroom he had meant to come to her as.

"A little," she whispers, her voice choked by her lungs being so pressed. "But the pleasure is greater when you move," she says, stroking his arm. "Please, continue."

"I am glad," he says and kisses her, his hair brushing her cheeks. "Is that better?" he asks and tries for a roll of his hips.

And at that roll, something amazing happens inside of her, something unfurling, unfolding, undoing her senses: all of her is seared by a golden wave upon wave of pleasure, each one of his rolls setting off a new series of waves within her. She gasps, staring at him without seeing him; she stills, only able to lie there and take it, take these wonderful, surging, rolling waves of ecstasy she is now being bathed in. "I--I--"

He but chuckles and continues: somewhere underneath the din of her pleasure, she is wondering if he is using magic, but she does not care. It feels too wonderful, _he_ feels too wonderful, and she is flowing out of her body over his cock as honey, his glorious cock, the glorious heat and hardness and softness and force now pushing utter shimmering brilliant delight through her. Oh, but she loves him, sobbing as she hangs onto him, her arms about his neck like one drowning, drowning in pleasure; she cannot control her body any longer, her cunny clutching him just as her legs clutch at him, spasming and fluttering uncontrollably in little peaks and valleys of pleasure. 

"That's it, my love," he murmurs, his words rapid, frantic as he keeps on rolling his hips, maintaining a steady, deliberate rhythm to his thrusts and the honey flows and flows; "Let me feel you, Yassamin, let me feel your love, oh--" 

But now, his voice breaks from his emotion, and he focuses the entirety of his body, the entirety of his being into but moving into her, in and out of her, rolling his love into her body a golden wave, trembling as he enfolds her, pierces her, entwines through her with his pleasure and love.

And she enfolds him in turn, now gasping for breath, each deep breath pulling more and more shimmering ripples through her body as a finger drawn through water draws ripples behind itself. She is so close, so close, but there is something missing still: each time his pudendum brushes against her cunny, she is almost there, almost, but dare not take her hand to her clitoris, not wanting to make him feel like he is a poor lover.

Yet he plucks this thought out of her mind and takes her hand to her cunny himself. "Please," he says, smiling. "Take _me,_ my love. Do not be ashamed. I want to see it, feel it--" he groans through his teeth, clearly struggling to control himself now. "Please. I want to wait for you," he mewls and resumes thrusting, all of him trembling.

But of course, this but makes it harder for her: she doesn't know what to do, never having done this before, and now he would have her perform for him somehow? "Help me," she says, biting her lip. If he can undo latches with but the power of his thought, she thinks, surely he can help her with the same powers somehow?

He throws back his head and laughs. "A woman's body is hardly a latch!" he cries. "But all right," he says, and he says it in such a curious way--almost rehearsed!--that this makes her think he must already have been enhancing her pleasure with his magic somehow. "But you have to close your eyes, only focus on your pleasure," he murmurs. "Breathe deep, and let go."

The very moment she closes her eyes, he thrusts and another wave of pleasure assaults her: the same thing she had felt before, only a thousand times stronger, knocking the very breath out of her lungs, sending stars dancing underneath her eyelids. "God!"

"That's it, my child," he chuckles. "Let go, let me fall into you, my sweet--"

But she is already falling, so beside herself she can barely hear him. The entire room, the entire ship, the entire sea now seems to roll and hum and move with pleasure, pleasure, pleasure; she becomes all iridescent shivers as he pours the true, devastating power of his magic into her, making love to her with what feels like the entirety of Nature. The wind ripples across her skin as he whispers his love against her ear, the sea murmurs underneath her and gives of its waves unto the waves of her delight, his body slamming into hers with the firmness of the earth itself; and within the joining of their bodies, fire, fire, leaping higher, higher, so high it joins the fire of the sun itself. She sobs and she sobs as she is tossed by him thus, he wielding all the elements with such expert strength, with such tremendous ease, and all for the sake of his love for her: a Bilqis she weeps in the arms of her Solomon as with his majesty, he makes them one.

Time stretches out, flips and pours and bends as she quivers there, her body lifting from the bed and crushed into it by his: all she knows are the waves, rising and falling, her soul now so gone from her she has become one with the sound of the sea. She crashes against him, whispers underneath him, enveloping him in her waves in turn: and all throughout this, she flows onto his prick, flows onto the sheets, all sap and sweat and sugar, bathing him in her sweetness. She is so utterly sated that she but swims in the waves as he keeps on moving into her, seeking his end in her; he dives into her, crashes into her in a wave breaking into a thousand sparkling droplets of delight.

For a long while, she lies there upon the bed, insensate: she thinks he is still moving into her as he lies atop her with all his weight, his breath huffing softly against her shoulder; yet it is but the rolling and lolling of the sea, now. Even then, both their bodies shiver a little, still; her cunny flutters around his prick a little, still, a last tendril of pleasure curling up her spine, still. 

They say that a woman is born into a new life after she ceases to be a virgin, but never could she have imagined anything like this: it is as if he has poured into her a completely new understanding, a wisdom, a maturity. She glances at the little streaks of light pouring in through the window-hatches; the very thought of Ahmad coming after her, now--the thing she had hoped for the most in the world but an hour ago--is, now, utterly revolting and terrifying to her.

"I'll sink him if he comes near," Jaffar quips cheerfully, blowing hair out of his eyes as he lifts to look up at her. "She loves me," he murmurs and searches her face with his eyes. "She loves me!" he cries out, tossing back his head, now shouting so loudly the entire ship can hear: "SHE LOVES ME!"

She laughs so hard at this that he slips out of her; she hugs him to herself. "You are a fool."

"Oh, and just so you know, I love you," he says, nodding in the over-eager way a child would: "I love you, I love you, I love you!" he cackles, hugging her tight, rocking her in his arms. "My father said a woman needs to hear that at least once a day, preferably thrice. I am just making sure."

She raises an eyebrow, pretending to consider. "I'm not sure if I heard you."

"I LOVE YOU!" he cries, again with such volume that all of Arabia and Persia must have heard. "Helmsman!" he cries and leaps out of the bed, still naked, poking his head through the door.

"Master?"

"Northwards to Basra!"

But it seems that the helmsman needs further instructions, and Jaffar remains shouting at the door for a while: Yassamin does not mind, seeing as she now has a fantastic view of his long, sinewed legs and his buttocks.

"You have a woman's hips," she says as he returns to the bed with a celebratory bowl of wine in hand. 

"They all say that," he says and hands to her the bowl. "A dancing teacher once told me I was the only boy he'd ever seen who could roll his hips the way a woman could." He tickles her cunny playfully, making her yelp. "And you seem to have enjoyed those hip-rolls...?"

"I enjoyed them very much," she laughs and passes to him the bowl before she spills the wine from her laughter. 

"It's funny," he says and smacks his mouth after he's taken a sip. "I always had two very different fantasies of that day I would finally take you. It was only ever slow, tender lovemaking or a wild ravishment," he says and turns to her with a grin, "but as luck would have it, we seem to have managed both."

"Did you dream of me slapping you?" she asks as she takes the bowl from him again. "Because I would not put that past you."

"Yes," he nods with great glee, his eyes glowing. "And by that, you would've made as hard as an iron rod and I would've pounded you to Paradise."

"Then, I must try that again," she says and glances at him wickedly over her bowl.

"You _are_ a harlot," he says, but with complete and utter adoration. "Pinch me."

"My cunny needs a rest! I promise to pander to your perversions later."

"I mean, pinch me because I cannot believe this is true, you fool," he says.

She does, and now he yelps so that he spills the wine; thankfully, there wasn't much left in the bowl. Nevertheless, he moves it out of harm's way and gathers her into his arms, pulling a thin silk sheet over them both. 

"So. How does it feel to be my wife?"

"Better than being a foolish maiden," she says, playing with the sparse hairs on his chest. 

"I am glad," he says and kisses her forehead. "Know that my only wish is to make you happy. To achieve that, I will give you anything you should ever desire, my love: if it is in my power to give, I will give it to you."

"My father always said that," she says, quietly. "It's not toys that I want, jewels or other luxuries. I've had enough of those things for a lifetime."

"Did you mean it about wanting to learn magic?" he asks, a little cautious. "At least I _thought_ I heard you think that just now, when I was inside you. Most people run scared from the very thought of it."

She laces her fingers with his. "I would love to," she says and searches his eyes. "Would you really trust me that much?"

He sighs and smiles ecstatically. "You don't know how long I have waited to find a woman to share my magic with! There are so many spells, you know, so many great rituals that are said to enhance one's health and to perfect one's soul, but they require the participation of a loving couple. They say you can harness the life-force itself if you manage to capture that life-giving spark that the sexual act generates," and now he grows excited, gesturing with his hand in a cupping movement. "I mean that spark that the male and female seeds produce when they meet inside the womb; the energy that ordinarily gets used to create a new human being. They say you can live to a hundred, perhaps even forever, once you learn how to turn that generative energy inwards, as it were, nourishing yourself and your lover as if a womb would nourish a growing child. Do you know how the Indians purport to do it?"

"I would have no idea!" she laughs, a little nervous. 

"By making love for hours and hours," he grins. "By raising both the male and female forces, entwining them, the man remaining hard inside the woman and the woman enveloping him, fluttering about him," and he flutters his fingers, "for as long as possible. And the flame thus stoked is supposed to bring eternal youth, eternal life. So, you see, even if we failed, and did not achieve eternal life after all, we would at least have fun trying!"

She takes his hand and kisses the cup of it, laughing. "That sounds much more pleasurable than breathing exercises, I must admit. Or reciting thousand-word litanies and drawing endless sigils into the carpet."

He makes a mock-sheepish face. "You might have to learn the breathing techniques first. But it's worth it, I'm sure."

She takes his hand to her buttock. "How about the lovemaking techniques? I mean, we should start my education forthwith."

He pulls her closer. "I agree," he croons, smacking her on the arse. "We barely know each other! My name is Jaffar. Jaffar, son of Yahya of the Barmakids. What's yours?"

"Yassamin," she laughs. "Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud of Basra. What brings you here, handsome stranger?"

"Well, it was a princess I set out to rescue," he says, twiddling his toes, dancing his fingertips upon her hip. "A very feisty little creature she was, running away from me every time I tried to help her. Now that I've got her in my wicked clutches, I don't quite know what to do with her. What do you suggest?"

"I suggest you do the right thing," she grins and clasps his hand upon her hip.

"Oh?" he raises his eyebrow.

"That you take me in your arms!"

"Now, _that,_ I can do," he growls playfully and drowns her in a sea of tickles, bites, caresses and kisses. "My wife, my wife, my wonderful wife."

"My fool of a husband!" she laughs, pulling him into her arms and ruffling his hair.

"That word!" He sighs in ecstasies. "Call me that again."

"Fool?" She bites her lip, wrapping her legs around him.

He raises his eyebrow; in his eyes flashes genuine hurt. "Do not tease. Had you waited as long as I have..." and now, true tears spring into his eyes.

"I am sorry," she says, kissing his hand. "I truly am," she whispers, "for I am the happiest of women to now be your wife, Jaffar son of Yahya," she continues, choking at the little smile that now begins to tug at his mouth. She looks deep into his eyes, mustering all her love, the ocean of her love into her words, sending them out to him from her heart to his heart. "My husband," she murmurs, his tears--now of joy--falling in the dip of her collarbone, "my husband," and now she can barely see him for tears of her own; "husband, husband, husband!" 

With an ecstatic sigh, he mingles the salt of their joys in a kiss.


End file.
